Transformations

When I was 42, in the summer of 2006, my teeth were a sorry, irreparable mess. The fault was congenital and attitudinal. Like my father before me, I had not received all my adult teeth. Inherited dental health and hygiene practice ran in the family, but personal mistakes were also made. By the time I was nine, my teeth were inadvertently stained and permanently discolored by a dentist’s tetracycline treatment. They were a grey, scraggly, uneven mess. I learned how to cope every day without exposing a matinee smile that probably would have earned me the greatest job, the most beautiful woman of my dreams, and pure Pepsodent happiness full speed ahead.

My own fault in this dental disaster came by the time I was 14. It was time for braces, and I adamantly refused. I sat for impressions, X-rays, measurements, but I reneged when it came for the hardcore installation. I didn’t want years of metal on my face because it might interfere with the potential of a great adolescence. I was a stupid little boy ready to become a bitter old man. My father didn’t challenge me, and the die was cast. For the rest of my life, I’d be doomed with a snaggle-toothed mouth I could have at least done something to prevent.

By December of that year, after 72 sleepless hours with an unbearably painful toothache, I had no alternative. That tooth needed to go, and the fifth and final dentist I’d seen in as many months gave me the same story. Partial dentures would be a crutch that met immediate needs but in the long run would be useless. Nothing presently in my mouth was guaranteed to last much longer. This was the final act for a stained set of choppers that had somehow helped me masticate in spite of the way they were treated.

I had a big head, flat feet, and a round, lumpy, pear-shaped body. The head wasn’t going to be molded into shape. Hair transplants were too expensive and never guaranteed. I was made to be a wheezy, asthmatic academic who gradually took to working out and healthy eating. I could have always lost a few pounds, but I would never be an Adonis. I had a high, barrel-shaped chest, some warts on my face, but I always had good intentions. Those would surely overcome my mediocre physical presence and possible heart problems inherited from both parents. My heart might have tangible potential future problems, but in an abstract way it was always in a good place.

I believe some cosmetic alterations are both welcome and essential. New teeth were a long time coming and I was willing to do whatever was necessary to get a set that fit like a glove and shined with all the natural gleam anybody could expect from 21st century acrylic dentures. I had patience, perspective, and I wanted to start seeing things to their natural, positive conclusions.